The crater was in the middle. A perfect circle, except in a few places where the edges had collapsed. Clay had imagined he would see red, bubbling molten magma inside the crater. Instead, there was water. The surface of the water was perfectly smooth, and as Clay looked at it, it turned from inky black to a silvery mirror—like a giant mood ring reflecting the changing colors of the sky.*

He walked to the edge and saw himself looking up from the water with his big searching eyes. His face was smudged; his clothes were torn; his hair, wilder than ever. His wooden volcano surfboard slid forward slightly and stuck out over his head; it looked like something dark and predatory about to overtake him—a floating shark, perhaps, or a stealth aircraft.

And then there was someone else standing by his side. Flint.

Clay turned to face the older boy. “Where is everybody?”

Flint shrugged. “Slow, I guess.”

Flint held something in his hand. It was a small, crudely made rag doll, with red yarn hair and a polka-dot handkerchief dress. It looked like a voodoo doll, at once harmless and frightening.

Clay felt sick to his stomach. “Is that supposed to be Mira?”

“I made it in the Art Yurt,” said Flint. “Do you like it?”

“What are you doing with it?”

Staring at Clay with his icy blue eyes, Flint stepped closer to the edge of the crater. He dangled the doll by a string tied to its leg.

Clay watched, incredulous. “You’re dropping it into the crater?”

Not saying anything, Flint carefully lowered the doll headfirst into the crater.

“Is this your way of saying you’re done with her?” asked Clay hopefully.

“It’s my way of saying she’s done,” said Flint.

Clay remembered Leira’s prediction that her sister would be sacrificed in a volcano. It appeared to be happening—but as a strange and disturbing puppet show.

“Is this part of the play?” Clay asked.

“There’s no play,” said Flint. “There never was a play.”

“What, then?”

Flint smiled. “A magic show?”

Then he pronounced that strange word in the language Clay didn’t recognize.

The doll had almost hit its target. The silvery water rose upward to meet it, as if pulled by an invisible gravitational force, then fell back down with a loud splash. As ripples spread outward, Clay thought he saw Mira’s face reflected briefly in the water. Then the water disappeared, replaced by roiling, churning, glowing lava. Clay tried to comprehend what he was seeing, but he couldn’t. It was spectacular and terrifying and absolutely magical.

“You still think magic sucks?” asked Flint snidely.

Now the doll was almost submerged. As lava bubbled and spurted around it, the doll’s hair caught on fire, and Flint yanked on the string. He pulled the burning doll out of the crater like a fish.

“Wait ’til you see what comes next.”

He swung the doll back and forth. Its hair burned unnaturally bright, more like a flare gun than flaming cotton.

“Price was a great magician, but he was a coward,” said Flint, the fire passing in and out of his eyes. “What’s the life of one girl compared to the power of fire? Price had everything within his grasp, and he gave it up because of his silly guilt.”

“What do you mean? Where are you going with that thing?” Clay still couldn’t tell what Flint was up to or how serious he was.

“Where do you think? The volcano wants to be fed, and I will feed it,” said Flint. “She will burn, and I will have the volcano’s magic.”

“This isn’t real,” said Clay. “You’re just saying lines. You’re not really going to kill anybody.”

“Maybe that’s what Buzz and Eli think,” said Flint scornfully. “But deep down they know what needs to be done, and I’m doing it.”

Holding the doll aloft like a torch, Flint ran to the far side of the volcano.

“Don’t try to stop me,” he called over his shoulder, “or you and everyone else will burn, too!”

With that parting sally, he grabbed his volcano board off his back, tossed it over the edge, and jumped after it.

Clay stood on top of the volcano for a moment, too stunned to move.

If Flint was to be believed, Mira was about to burn to death. But where? How?

The library, thought Clay. He’s headed to the library. He’s going to light it on fire. Flint was rewriting Randolph Price’s story to his own liking.

And then Clay stepped into action.